Aquam
by Laughing-At-Dragons
Summary: This was it. This was how he would die, cold, frightened, and alone. No glory, no fanfare, just the dark. Bagginshield.
1. I

Bilbo's hands fought for purchase on Nori's barrel, splinters dug painfully into the flesh under his fingernails; it was all he could to keep above the surface.

Nori tried to heave the hobbit over the barrels rim; his fists were clenched into Bilbo's jacket as he pulled, but he had not the strength to do it. Days sitting in a dark cell with minimal food had taken its toll. The rapids beat against their faces filling their mouths and eyes with water; it was everywhere, all around them and on their insides.

Bilbo clung desperately to the wood as the company raced in their barrels around a sharp bend. They bobbed and swirled like apples in the current; helpless. The river was freezing, there was no other way to describe it; Bilbo felt as cold as a corpse. The muscles in his legs seizing up and were no use to him for trying to swim.

The shock of it all made him deaf to the shouts of the company, and numb to the pain of his now bleeding finger tips and cramping in his lower body. Nothing mattered more than just staying alive.

Suddenly, Nori's barrel gave a fatal jolt as it collided with some rocks and Bilbo was thrown from its side. He barely had time to cry as he descended into the water and the world was lost to him. If Nori reached for him, he was already too late.

The sunlight above was broken into shards by the rolling rapids, the hobbit stretched out his arm but his hand grappled at nothing. There was only water.

He sank deeper.

Bilbo kicked, his body moved but not in the right direction. He couldn't tell which way was up anymore, the brightness above him began to fade away. It was like an illusion that had never really been there. His head spun.

The hobbit's chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped their arms around him and was trying to squeeze the air from his lungs. If he screamed, it would be silent.

Bilbo tried to swim, but he floundered helplessly. It was cold.

He was tired. Tired for some reason. How long had he been here? The water was oppressive, a heavy weight that dragged him away from the surface, from the fresh air.

It was so quiet down here. Bilbo could hear nothing, not his breath, not the swirling of current, there was nothing but his own thoughts.

So

_ T_

He was floating now, his body lost its fight and the will to struggle. He sighed, and bubbles rouse from his lips and dissolved into the water.

_ L_

This was it. This was how he would die, cold, frightened, and alone. No glory, no fanfare, just the dark.

He had hoped to pass in his sleep, an old hobbit with white hair, with his friends surrounding him; his hand clenched in theirs.

Was he ready? Not really, but it didn't matter now.

_ T_

The dwarves wouldn't know what had happened. They'd search for him, call his name, but Bilbo wouldn't be able to answer. He hoped that they'd be spared the trauma of finding his waterlogged body, washed on the river bank; face white and eyes open, mouth agape as he had gasped for breath.

...

He'd miss them. He'd miss them so much.

Ori

Dori

Nori

Bifur

Bofur

Bombar

Oin

Gloin

Dwalin

Balin

Fili

Kili

_Thorin. _

He never got to say goodbye.

He never got to tell _him –_

_ E_

For what would be the last time Bilbo shut his eyes, and drifted, the dark enclosed him.

.

.

.

.

.

Thorin Oakenshield struggled as the water tried to pull him along, even in the shallows it was fiercely strong.

His clothes, his hair, every part of his was soaked which meant more weight he was forced to drag around.

Around him the company began to climb out of their respective barrels, spitting and cursing like half drowned cats. Dwalin was trying to pull Ori to shore, as the young dwarf seemed too exhausted to manage by himself.

Thorin's breath was coming out in great pants, he stood up and did a head count. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven… twelve, thirteen.

He counted again. And for a third time.

_Thirteen. _

The dwarf frantically searched with his eyes, throat tightening, hoping to see a mop of brown curls breach the surface or a round face with a snub nose poke out from behind a barrel. Despite hoping, it wasn't enough, he didn't appear.

Bilbo was missing.

"Where is the hobbit?!"

He hurried to check the now empty barrels, but they were all just that; empty. With a growl he discarded them and cupped his hands around his mouth.

"Bilbo!"

His call echoed back to him with no answer. He kept trying.

"_Bilbo!_"

Pushing against the current he took steps to go upstream, he peered around the rocks to see if their burglar had become caught is the deeper part of the river. It was as if he'd disappeared into thin air.

"Uncle!"

His oldest nephew came over, blonde hair dripping wet and his braided moustache coming undone.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"I cannot find the hobbit." Thorin said hoarsely.

Fili's eyes grew wide. "Not Bilbo."

The company had all made it the river bank, the news that Bilbo had not yet been recovered had ceased their pretty grumbling over the state of their clothes and loss of weapons almost immediately. They stood, wild eyed and pale with concern.

"Search this place! I want him _found._" Thorin barked, but they needed no orders.

It was chaos, every dwarf began to call out the hobbit's name while they searched. Some followed the river bank from where they had just come, thinking maybe Bilbo might have crawled onto dry land. Others waded into the river, careful not to get dragged away. Kili took a dive, looking through the weeds and combing the riverbed. Odd as it was, Thorin hoped his nephew wouldn't find Bilbo there.

_He couldn't hold his breath for that long. _

As seconds ticked by, and Bilbo Baggins still did not appear, the king could feel a chilling dread clawing at his belly.

_Find him._

They had to find him.


	2. II

.

.

.

Bilbo could hear a voice.

It was so soft, and so far away that he thought he'd imagined it.

Who would be calling him down here?

He listened again.

Was it his father calling?

It was so long since Bilbo had heard his father's tones, his rough, farmer's chuckle and his low humming.

Gone.

Gone like his mother.

There were more voices now, like persistent flies buzzing in his head. They were harsh whispers, they swirled in the water around him.

_. :._

Why wouldn't they let him be?

They were oddly familiar, as if they'd always been there, nestling in Bilbo's inner ear.

_. . :._

He wasn't dead. The dead couldn't hear.

_. . .pReCiOuS:._

And he could _move. _

The hobbit twitched his fingers, trying to get the blood pumping, but he was frozen. He couldn't feel his own limps, any movement, no matter how small took what little strength he had.

But then his body was assaulted by a terrible pain, his back was pierced by something jagged which ripped the cloth his jacket and cut into his flesh. Apart from the water, he could feel something new steaming from the wound.

He was bleeding.

Bilbo not the air left his lungs to cry out, but his abused body gave one last pitiful flail; his hand grabbing at something hard but slippery.

Rocks.

Not just that, but his hand was reaching _out_ of the rapids and into the fresh, dry air.

His brain had been slumbering all this time, but the realization that he could touch the air and be able to _breathe_ again was the most vivid awakening.

He was Bilbo Baggins, and he was not going to die.

.

.

.

As minutes became hours of fruitless searching of the river and its banks, the darkening of the skies reflected well the mood among the company.

Thorin himself had not rested. Even though he had hurts from the rough ride in his barrel, he refused to let Oin see to him. If Bilbo was injured, and he probably was, he'd be the one needing the healer's attention.

They were all exhausted.

Need for food, rest, and the loss of the day light would force them to stop eventually. At full strength, the company would have searched all night for the hobbit, but they just didn't have it in them. Mirkwoods dungeons had drained them, emotionally and physically.

One by one they painfully made their way over to Thorin; the king's heart sank deeper as they each confirmed what their grim faces already betrayed.

Nothing.

Less than nothing.

It was frustratingly perplexing, the river was not that deep, nor ran for a great distance; they should have found _something_ by now. But not a whisker, not a single solitary hair had been found.

The not knowing was like a poison, and it left Thorin to imagine the worst.

He could see almost their hobbit, tangled in some weeds, clothes torn and body being tugged by the water's flow; cold and silent. Green eyes never to open, face never to smile, his corpse now just food for the fish.

The dwarf gagged, suddenly sick.

He was bent in the middle, hand spread on the trunk of a nearby to support himself. Eyes screwed shut, his breathing coming out in great pants as he tried to fight the nausea.

This was not from any illness, it was worry, fear, everything bursting forth and spilling out.

Thorin stayed that way for many minutes, until he felt a warm hand on his shoulder blade. It stilled him, and he knew who it belonged to.

With his stomach starting to settle, Thorin straightened up and looked over his shoulder so he could meet Balin's gaze.

The dwarf seemed so… weary, the lines in his face were deeper than ever Thorin had seen them, and the blue of his irises seemed glassy and distant; as if deeply troubled, or in mourning. Never had Balin appeared so _old. _

"….still no sign?"

"No laddie… I've come to tell ye that…" Balin let out a breath. "That we think it best that we stop for the night. We can look again at first light."

"When was this decided?" Thorin growled.

Balin opened his mouth but Thorin cut him off. "And without me present? Do I not lead this company? Or have I been usurped?"

His friend's face was pleading. "It's no good Thorin, it's too dark. Our eyes can't serve us, we'll… we'll recover Master Baggins on the morrow. Wherever he may be."

_Recover._

They'd already declared Bilbo dead.

Thorin was furious, his anger fuelled by overwhelming grief and a crippling sense of failure. He'd failed the hobbit, he'd always known he would. Because he wasn't good enough, he wasn't strong enough, or clever enough. Mahal had determined that he was to ride a cycle loss, despair and ruin until his heart stopped beating.

It wasn't _fair._

He stormed away from Balin and down to where the company had made camp, a tiny fire was burning; they huddled around it in silence.

There were no songs being sung tonight.

Thorin's arrival shattered the peace as he charged in like a warg, Dwalin and Gloin were immediately on their feet; watching their leader in case he pounced on someone.

"You will all get a grip on yourselves!" he roared "Sitting here moping while our burglar is out there, alone and injured, at the mercy of orcs and men! for shame, if our places were reversed Master Baggins wouldn't eat or rest until he'd found us."

Some of the company shuffled guilty, others stared into the flames. Dwalin was the only one with the nerve to look Thorin in the eye.

"That's unfair and yer know it, we're all cut up about Master Baggins, not just ye. But we can't do anything now. It's too _dark, _we'd only get ourselves lost, ave' some sense for mahal's sake!"

Thorin snorted.

Dwalin took a gentler approach. "I know ye cared for him-"

"Don't you _dare-" _The king snarled, spitting with rage.

To bring _that_ business up now was just plain… suicidal.

The bald dwarf seized Thorin by his shoulders and shook him. "I _dare!_ Cause' yer going to burn out at this rate. Raging like a mad bull ain't going to make Master Baggins appear any faster." He swallowed. "Ye need sleep, I swear I'll knock ye out myself if I have to."

"You just try it." Thorin spat, shoving Dwalin away.

They stood nose to nose, not speaking, hands clenched into fists.

You could hear the crickets chirping softy in the grass. The air was thick enough to be cut with a blade.

With a sharp huff, the King turned on his heal and marched into the darkness; ignoring his nephew's calls after him.


End file.
